But Maks had nowhere to go. He had been spun around in the fight and now his back was to a tent. Instead of waiting for Ashiq Temür’s attack, Maks moved first. But the fat Mongol was quicker than his bulk suggested. He got within Maks’s measure and swept his bulky arm down, pinning Maks’s sword against his body. Maks struggled a second too long, trying to pull his sword free, and he brought his hand up in a valiant—but hopeless—effort to shield his face from the Mongol’s cudgel.
Rutger saw Maks’s body jerk and spasm as his skull was shattered by Ashiq Temür’s club, and when the fat Mongol stepped back, the young initiate—his face a bloody, unrecognizable pulp—fell as if bonelessly to the ground.
Rutger’s chest threatened to seize again, and his blood pounded in his ears. Another boy gone, he thought. He heard his voice echoing in his head, screaming the Shield-Brethren battle cry.
The guards outside of Ongwhe’s tent saw them coming and hesitated, frightened by the bloody figures running toward them. Zug had his naginata, and at his side were Kim, Lakshaman, and one of the Rose Knights. The guards had been stuck at the Khan’s tent, unable to participate in the battle, forced to watch what little bit of the melee they could see. They were eager to fight—too eager, perhaps—and when the fight finally came to them, they reacted poorly.
A guard thrust his spear too soon at Zug and he sidestepped it easily. With a tiny flick of his hands he smashed the shaft aside with the heavy naginata and swiped the blade across the narrow gap between the top of the Mongol’s armor and the base of his throat. It was a tiny space, but with years of practice he had gotten very good at cutting it—straight across, side to side.
Nearby, a guard dropped to the ground, gurgling and clawing at the knife that sprouted from his throat. Two more guards charged him and he dropped down to one knee, pulling his weapon tight to his body. He kept the blade of the naginata pointed up, forcing the guards to go to either side of him or risk impaling themselves on his blade. The guards ran right into Kim and Lakshaman, who fell upon them in a frenzy of steel.
More guards poured out of the Khan’s tent, and Zug lost himself in the battle that followed. The skullmaker sang its song, and he felt a tiny spark of joy in his chest.
Finally, he was doing the right thing.
When the last guard fell, weeping as he tried to staunch the earnest flow of blood from a severed arm, Zug strode toward the Khan’s tent and thrust aside the heavy flaps.
The interior was surprisingly sparse for as large as it was. There were only a few tables and divans scattered on a sea of colorful rugs. On the far side, Onghwe Khan lounged on a long platform draped with silks and furs. A nearby table was covered with trays of food, and the Khan languidly held a silver goblet in one hand, seemingly unconcerned about the sudden appearance of armed men in his private tent. His body was draped with layers of colored silks, and though the lavish fabrics hid his frame, the enormous weight of his body could not be fully disguised.
He was completely unarmed and unprepared for the quartet’s entrance, yet he did not look remotely frightened. Unlike the whore hiding behind him, her eyes wide with abject terror.
There were still more guards as well. Zug’s eyes darted about the grand room, counting five armed men. They were approaching the front of the tent cautiously, their expressions running the gamut from fury to outright panic.
But the Khan was nonplussed. Zug returned his gaze to Onghwe’s round face, seeking some sign that the Khan remotely understood what was about to happen to him. How can he be so unaware of the danger? he thought. Is the Khan in the grip of some sort of pleasure drug? Is he insensate from wine? The Khan’s mouth opened slightly, his tongue darting out to run across his ruddy lips, and Zug felt only revulsion and fury at the years he had lost to this man.
The guards were approaching, and there was no more time for idle speculation. Zug stepped farther inside the tent, allowing the others to crowd past him. Kim wasted no time, leaping to attack the first man. The Flower Knight’s spear pierced the throat of his opponent with a well-aimed thrust; he folded the man in half with a powerful kick to the abdomen, and then proceeded to leap over the collapsing man to smash through the guard of a second Mongol, who screamed as Kim’s blade cut through his arm and lodged in his chest.
On Zug’s left, Lakshaman parried a spear thrust with his sword, cutting at the guard’s hands as the weapon went past him. The stroke took too long, and he didn’t get his sword around in time to block the thrust from a second man. He let out a low grunt as the spear point entered his right shoulder. As Zug watched, Lakshaman grabbed the shaft of the spear and wrenched the spear-wielding Mongol closer to him. He rammed his blade through the man, and as the Mongol died, he let go of his sword and pulled the spear out of his shoulder. A hard cast knocked the remaining guard off his feet, and only then did Lakshaman retrieve his sword.